Parlay
by jezzer
Summary: House and Wilson make a bet.  Slash.  Set during season 6, some time before the Huddy arc.  House and Wilson live together at the condo.
1. Chapter 1

There were too many occasions, on too many days that Wilson found himself asking, 'Can this day possibly get any worse?'

Then House moved in and he stopped bothering.

Because the answer was always 'yes'.

Like now, for example. Wilson sniffed and grimaced at the smell of burnt popcorn as he stepped over a cane-battered smoke alarm.

'Hey,' House greeted him without taking his eyes from the television.

'Hey,' Wilson walked into the kitchen, wincing as he trod on popcorn kernels, and all but crying out loud when he saw the sink overflowing with dishes, and oddly enough, burnt popcorn.

He grabbed two bottles of beer and trudged back into the living room, handing one to House as he sat down beside him.

'So, what's going on?' he nodded his head at the coffee table littered with binge evidence.

'Pity party. Welcome,' and House threw out his arm in invitation.

Wilson nodded. 'What are we celebrating?'

House looked back at the television. 'Tried to kiss Cuddy earlier. In her office. Got shot down in flames.'

Wilson raised his eyebrows at the TV. 'Wanna talk about it?' he asked.

'No.'

'Okay.' Wilson concentrated on his own beer.

'You know Wilson,' House drawled, 'sometimes, no means yes.'

'Are you referring to me or Cuddy?'

House smirked.

Wilson waited a full minute before he caved. 'So, what happened?'

'Well,' House took a long pull of his beer; 'I was summoned to her majesty's office for…for…' he trailed off, looking confused, 'Actually, I really have no idea what for.' He shook his head. 'Anyway, I happened to notice that while I was staring at her twins, she was staring at mine.'

He looked away from the TV long enough to give Wilson a leering wink.

'Your what?' Wilson scrunched up his face.

'My twins'.

'You have twins?'

'She was staring at my chest, Wilson. Don't be a dick.'

Wilson stared at said same chest and suddenly knew where House was going with this.

'You have a pretty impressive tear in your shirt', he said pointing somewhere in the vicinity of House's left twin.

'And you have hideous ties,' House retorted nastily.

Wilson looked down at his tie and shrugged.

'Anyhoooo,' House said loudly, 'ignorant as I was of that fact, I leaned towards her. She leaned back.' He lifted the bottle back to his lips, giving Wilson just enough time to spoil his dramatic pause.

'Leaned back _away _from you? That might have been your first clue.'

'Fuck off, Wilson. I was kinda committed at that stage so I kept going. When she opened her mouth, I really thought I was in there but then she sort of screamed. And not in a good way, not in a "God Greg, yes, more, please, yes" way but more like "What the fuck House, get out of my office, you creep"', House looked into space, 'or it may have been "pervert."' He shrugged. 'Semantics.'

Wilson was enjoying this show so much that he wished House hadn't burnt all the popcorn.

'And', he threw his arms out in a 'continue' gesture.

'I don't know...something about personal hygiene, inappropriate behaviour and clinic hours. You'd have to ask the bats nesting in the hospital rafters to decipher the rest.'

Wilson twisted his mouth to the side. 'What are you going to do now?' he asked

House shook his head. 'Don't know.'

'What were you thinking? What on earth possessed you to try kiss her in her office?'

'David Attenborough.'

'Pardon me?'

'David Attenborough. On his show last night, he was talking about the mating rituals of Vervet Monkeys. When males and females are attracted to each other, they mimic each other's behaviour. Apparently this is  
a common trait of higher order primates…soooo, when I stare at Cuddy's chest, it's because I'm attracted to her. Ergo, when I saw her staring at my chest…well, you can fill in the blanks.'

'You're taking wooing advice from monkeys now?'

'Yeah, my follow up was going to include sniffing her ass before peeing around her desk. Oh, and maybe some poop throwing. You think maybe I should have opened with that?'

Wilson raised his eyebrows. 'I think we'd be having this conversation in an entirely different location if you had. One with bars.'

'A zoo?'

'A jail.' After a pause Wilson added, 'I hope you've learned something.'

'Yeah. Red penises.'

'I assume you're not talking about Cuddy.'

'Vervet Monkeys. The males have red penises and,' House turned to look at Wilson, a big grin spreading across his face, 'blue balls.'

'Ah', Wilson grinned back, 'Another trait you now have in common.'

He heaved himself off the sofa and went foraging in the kitchen, returning with two glasses and a bottle of bourbon.

'Cheers', he held out a filled glass to House, who raised it, emptied it and settled back with a wince.

'How come you're home so early?' Wilson asked during a commercial break.

'Blew off my clinic hours.'

'Well, that showed her.'

'I may have said this already, but fuck off, Wilson'.

'Pity she's not here now, she'd never be able to resist you. I see you've improved on the 5 inch rip by further decorating your shirt with…what is that? Korma sauce?'

House's look of affront didn't deter Wilson.

'There are noodles in your beard,' he further critiqued. 'Go like this,' Wilson barred his teeth and House did likewise. 'Yes, green stuff on your teeth. Which is quite remarkable considering I have never seen you actually eat anything green. And your breath…'

He leaned into House, who held his breath.

'Well, I bet it smells like nothing on earth.'

'I bet it smells just like my dinner'.

'Yeah.' Wilson looked at the empty take-out containers around him. 'Nothing on earth.'

House ran his tongue over his teeth and went fishing in his beard. Upon finding the noodle, he held it up triumphantly to Wilson. And popped it in his mouth with a satisfied 'Yummm.'

Wilson looked suitably unimpressed. 'I see your problem with Cuddy. Kissing you would be disgusting.'

House smirked and stretched his legs out on to the coffee table, spilling containers, which then proceeded to leak left-over sauce onto the hardwood.

Wilson refused to be baited. 'Cure your patient yet?' he asked

'Nope', House answered.

'Wow, two failures in one day. How's your ego coping?'

'Fine, thanks. Thinking of going line dancing with your self-righteousness.'

Wilson rolled his eyes and twirled the glass in his hand.

'Can I help?' he asked.

'With what?' And House did genuinely look puzzled

'Your patient.'

House stared incredulously at him for so long that Wilson bristled.

'What?' Wilson asked, as if he didn't already know.

House turned his mouth down and shrugged.

'What I mean', continued Wilson, after sighing for emphasis, 'is that we do our thing where you talk about you patient and get no-where. And then we get sidetracked down some blind alley and I say something obscure, which you then turn into an epiphany. You get up and race for the hospital – in a cab' – he stressed, nodding at the bottle on the table, 'just in the nick of time to save the day, and the patient. Still wearing the torn shirt. And tonight's dinner.'

House nodded, somewhat soothed.

The bourbon gave Wilson a nudge. '_Why do you let him ridicule you like this?_'

Well, not so much nudged – more like overtook.

'I'm a good doctor. What makes you think I couldn't diagnose her?' he asked

'Well,' House drawled, 'for a start you can't even diagnose the right sex. Her is he. And then there was the time you thought the patient's cancer was herpes, and the time you thought another patient was cured of cancer, when it was, ironically enough, herpes. What is it with you and herpes? It's like it you can't stay away from each other. And then there was the time…'

'Enough, House,' snapped Wilson, immediately responding to the poke of a stick that House loved to prod sore spots with. He really hated it when House gleefully reminded him of how his personal judgement clouded his professional conduct. The only thing he hated more was his own tendency to over-react to it. 'I see your ego is back,' he snipped.

'Turns out your self righteousness is the only part of you that won't put out.'

'Well, it has to bought dinner first, you know, made to feel special.'

'Hmmm.'

'I bet', said the bourbon or Wilson - one of them - 'I bet that I can cure your patient before you.'

House looked at him levelly. 'What are you? Drunk? Stupid? Both?'

And when Wilson just shrugged, he grew suspicious. 'What do you know?'

'Nothing', answered Wilson truthfully.

House MD was running out of patience with this but Gambler House wanted to know the stakes. 'And if you win?'

'Oh-ho, that's easy', Wilson surveyed the wreckage around him, 'If I diagnose your patient first, then you have to clean this place everyday for a week. And that includes dishes – washed, dried and put away – plus vacuuming, laundry, floor washing, grocery shopping.' As an afterthought he threw in, 'And cooking.'

House pondered this. 'Washing your boxers and socks would be disgusting', he stated.

'Kissing you would be disgusting,' Wilson threw back.

House twisted his mouth to the side. 'Okay then, if I win…if I win, you have to kiss me. And that includes tongue – washed, wet and putting out – plus nibbling, biting, licking, sucking.' As an afterthought he threw in, 'And groping.'

A sober Wilson would have had the good sense to refuse such terms but a drunk Wilson was, well…drunk, and amused. He also wondered if maybe he should stop drinking now, but what the hell - he'd already placed a long shot bet with House - it wasn't like there was anything stupid left to say. He refilled the glasses with a shaky hand.

'Of course, I reserve the right to exchange the kiss for a cash prize.' House took the offered glass.

'How much?' asked Wilson warily.

'Two hundred bucks.'

'Done. Although I would happily have paid at least twice that not to be kissed by you.'

'Really? I didn't think you were capable of turning down any action, regardless of origin.'

'I do have some standards,' Wilson sniffed with that peculiar sense of drunken dignity.

'Higher than a pulse?'

'Bastard.'

'Slut.'

They raised their glasses.

'Bottoms up,' toasted Wilson.

'Up yours.'

'You wish.'


	2. Chapter 2

When House banned Wilson from differentials the following day, Wilson wasn't surprised. He was, however, handed a list of symptoms and given time-tabled access to the still unconscious patient.

Wilson objected just for the hell of it. 'Your team might come up with the answer before you. How would that be fair?'

House looked at him with exaggerated contempt. 'How often have those idiots come up with a diagnosis before me?'

'Why keep them then?'

'They're my lackies Wilson. You don't think that I'm going to do bloods, urine, CBC, full tox screen, head CT, EKG, lumbar puncture, glucose, cultures and chest x-ray all by myself ,do you? Where would I find the time to get my nails done?'

'All negative?'

House scrubbed a decidedly un-manicured hand over his face. 'Yeah, nothing unusual.'

'MRI?'

'Can't – he's had a second knee replacement recently. Two hips and two knees of uncertain origin, chances are if I put the bionic man under an MRI, something will break. Then Cuddy will have something else to yell about.'

'And yes,' he pre-empted Wilson's interruption, 'something else other than me trying to kiss her.'

Wilson smiled and studied the meagre file that House had copied for him. 'So the RA is confirmed then.'

'Yup, X-rays showed fibrosis of the lungs, and there's evidence of atherosclerosis and keratoconjunctivitis.'

'It could be related to the arthritis…'

'Can't think of anything RA related that would cause the patient to stop being able to breathe. Or remain conscious.'

'Another autoimmune disorder…maybe Crohns?'

If House's expression was an indicator of a tirade that was to follow this last suggestion, then Wilson was saved by the appearance of House's team

'Liver function is normal.' Foreman shrugged his shoulders and passed a sheet of paper to House.

'I still think it could be a complication of his recent surgery. He's immunocompromised, he could have picked up any number of infections…' Thirteen closed her mouth as House closed his eyes.

'Wilson', he said tiredly.

'He shouldn't be immunocompromised – he would have been off all medications for at least six weeks before the operation in order to build up his immunity, in case of such infections,' Wilson explained.

'You're an idiot,' House snapped at her, before deciding to spread the love. 'You're all idiots. Get in,' he nodded towards the door and dismissed Wilson, 'and you get away.'

'Wait,' Wilson halted the movement, 'you said the liver function is normal. You should do…

'Great idea,' agreed House interrupted enthusiastically. 'And so should you. With you own staff.'

House led his team into the diagnostic offices, calling over his shoulder, 'They're my lackies, get your own.'

Wilson shivered at the thought of pulling some of his own much larger team away from their difficult and emotionally draining work in order to facilitate his and House's game.

It was this same work that occupied Wilson for most of the morning and it was almost lunchtime before he found himself passing diagnostics.

He peered into the glass office at the five doctors arguing animatedly and wished that he could lip-read or back-of-the-head read or even whiteboard-far-away read.

House spotted Wilson, smirked and blew him a kiss, causing the team to turn curiously towards Wilson.

Wilson smiled back, pointed to himself and mouthed 'Who? Me?...Or…' and he waited until an approaching Cuddy came into their view, before pointing at her. Wilson furrowed his brow at House and shrugged his shoulders, gesturing between himself and a frowning Cuddy.

'Who?' he mouthed again, his face a mask of mock confusion.

House's eyes widened and he turned away, scowling.

'What's going on? Or do I want to know?' Cuddy asked Wilson, stopping beside him.

'Vervet Monkeys and blue balls'.

'I'm just going to keep walking.' And she did just that.

When House looked out at the corridor, Wilson blew the kiss back to him and House flipped him the bird.

Wilson had never really been sure about the God Stuff but as he sat alone in House's office, awaiting his own turn to examine the patient, he wondered if it was worth beseeching some deity for inspiration. Probably not. He, and many others before him, had often prayed for something far more important than a ridiculous bet - and had been left wanting.

Although Wilson had argued regularly with House about the possibility of a higher power, he had seen enough death and suffering to doubt it. Wilson's agnosticism might well have complimented House's atheism, but there were two reasons that Wilson kept his feet out of either camp.

The first time God spoke to Wilson it was via the magic eight ball that his seven year old brother had traded James' beloved Stretch Armstrong for. After an appropriate thumping had been doled out, both boys had been sent to bed.

'Should I punch him again?' James asked the ball, which he had rightfully claimed as his.

'It is certain', was the answer.

James got out of bed and crept to Danny's room, fists clenched in readiness. When he got there he found his brother thrashing on his bed, choking on his own vomit and James must have shouted and lunged at his brother. He also must have also done something right because by the time his parents ran into the room, Danny was spilling the vomit out of his mouth and gasping desperately for breath.

Later, after Danny had been moved to his parents' bed, James lay in his own thinking of what he had asked the eight ball. _Should I punch him again?_ It is certain. And he had done it; he had thumped his brother on the back repeatedly until he dislodged the blockage from his airway.

Wilson's Messiah Complex had been birthed that very night and maybe, just maybe, he would have shrugged off such a self-imposed burden, but every time he took his eye off the ball, _every fucking time_, some catastrophe would follow. Like a patient who had died alone. Or a brother who had gone missing. Or a wife who cheated. Or a friend who had been left crippled.

Many, many years after that fateful night, he had phoned House to cancel phoned a pre-arranged game of golf. 'Bonnie is taking me to Hawaii for a week', he explained.

'Ho'omaika'i 'Ana,' House responded. 'Don't worry, I'll take Stacy. We'll play when you get back.'

Wilson put down the phone and picked up the much revered 8 ball beside it. He gave it a shake, hating himself for wishing this vacation away so he could be back playing golf with House.

'Don't count on it' said the ball.

Some months after that, House sat on Wilson's sofa, rubbing his mangled thigh and slurring in a drug filled voice, 'Do you think she might come back?'

Wilson reached for the ball. 'Ask again later.'

He gave the toy to House.

The second time God spoke to Wilson, it was in Spanish. Which was probably fitting seeing as the twenty year old Wilson was enjoying his parents' 'congratulations on passing your exams' gift of a vacation in Barcelona. It was also helping the lovestruck Wilson get over the beautiful young girl he had met and bedded after a medical lecture some months beforehand. Fireworks, and all of that. But as is often cliche of young love, she had left the next morning without a goodbye or a phone number. 'Alas', a poetic Wilson was lamenting, when the same beautiful girl had almost walked past him on the street.

In Barcelona.

_In Fucking Barcelona.___

'Ola, Wilson,' said God.

'Sam,' he called and she stopped. They had stared at each other for at least a minute before both deciding to speak at the same time.

'I never got your number…'

'You never called…'

It was too spooky to be funny.

Some time later Wilson discovered that he much preferred the golden ratio of Sam's body to the much reverred architecture of Barcelona. He also discovered that Sam actually had left her number hidden in a book that Wilson pretended he loved and frequently re-read, just because she had admired it. Two years later, they were married in front of family, friends and allegedly, God.

Wilson dragged himself back to the present and thought he could really do with God showing up for a third time right about now. He really, really wanted to win this bet. There was more at stake than he was willing to admit in any conscious manner.

He lifted his eyes skywards.

_Are you there God? It's me, Wilson._

And the phone on House's desk rang.

Wilson jumped and looked around him before looking back at the phone. He wondered if he answered it would he hear a voice say, 'Yeah, Hi Wilson, it's me, God.' And then he wondered why his imaginary God sounded so much like House.

He slowly picked up the receiver and whispered 'Hello'.

It wasn't House.

It was God.

A busy couple of hours passed for Wilson - what with the confirming, and the treating and the avoiding House's team while doing so.

He waited until all five doctors were assembled in House's outer office, before loudly opening the door and smiling the smuggiest smile that was ever smiled.

House visibly tensed.

'Your patient is cured.' Wilson bowed.

House stared at him, as did his team.

'Care to share with the class, Dr. Wilson?'

'Gladly. Encephilitis.'

'But the lumber puncture came back negative. There were no cerebral abscesses,' Foreman argued.

'Unusual presentation.' Wilson never took his eyes from House. 'But not that unusual.'

'No bacteria in the cultures,' House said slowly, his eyes narrowing.

'Not that kind of encephalitis. Viral.'

'Viral encephalitis? That's usually caused by…' Chase had begun but the others joined in for the conclusion.

'Herpes,' chorused all four.

Wilson positively beamed at the glowering House.

'How did you figure this out?' asked House, who was at least one step ahead of his team.

'Well, you know me and herpes. It's like we can't stay away from each other.' Wilson turned to the team. 'The rash is still active in his left nostril and the scabbing around his knee wound hasn't been caused by itching due to healing but itching due to a recent rash.'

'Start the patient on acyclovir and increase the methylprednisolone,' House growled.

'Done. And done,' said Wilson and, Jesus, if he hadn't been waiting for this moment for all of his life.

'By the way', he threw over his shoulder as he left the office, 'I'll have chicken parmigiana for dinner.' 


	3. Chapter 3

Wilson got steak and fries for dinner.

Not that he complained. Especially as it tasted all the nicer for the two hour nap that had preceded it. He yawned and stretched at the entrance of the newly uncluttered living room, which for some reason seemed to piss House off even more.

Score Team Wilson.

'How'd you do it?' House asked him, as they sat with their dinners on their laps.

Wilson shrugged, and without any trace of self-consciousness, answered 'A lucky guess, I guess.'

House didn't believe him for a second. 'But…,' he began before Wilson interrupted. 'Shhh – David Attenborough's about to start.'

This day was the day that just kept on giving.

As were the days that followed. Wilson was well fed and relatively stress free due to having a live-in maid who tidied and cooked, and only complained by rubbing dramatically at his thigh. And only when Wilson was watching.

Wilson paid no heed.

House was still House though, as Wilson was reminded frequently during the week.

'Tuesday is usually laundry day,' he informed House. 'I'll leave my hamper in my bathroom tomorrow morning.'

'I don't do laundry,' declared House. 'I shrink things.'

Wilson shrugged. 'I'll take my chances.'

The following day he walked in on House folding shirts into a hamper.

'These are mine boss, I've already put your laundry away,' House smiled brightly at him.

A more alert Wilson might have been alarmed. Instead a completely relaxed Wilson nodded an 'as it should be' nod.

The following morning, after his shower, Wilson opened his underwear drawer and found that House had shrunk all of his boxer shorts into teeny tiny thongs. For teeny tiny women. On closer inspection, Wilson reflected that he didn't remember ever owning boxers in various shades of pinks, yellows and lilacs. Nor did he ever remember them being made of lace and satin. Not so much shrunk then, more like replaced. Wilson counted – eighteen thongs, every one of them resembling a piece of dental floss.

Ten minutes later, he was still fighting a smile as he left his bedroom.

'Morning House,' he greeted, as he grabbed his laid out cereal and moved the suture kit off the couch, so as not to sit on it.

'Morning, Master', muttered House, jumping up dramatically and rubbing furiously at the base of a nearby lamp with a cloth.

Wilson laughed, dribbling some milk down his chin and on to his trousers. House threw the dish rag at him.

'We have new cloths?' asked Wilson as he caught it.

'Yep', answered House, 'eighteen of them.'

Ah, thought Wilson, explains the suture kit, and he proceeded to wipe his chin with the dish-rag-formerly-known-as-his-underwear.

When he threw the cloth back to House, it landed some distance short and Wilson stood to retrieve it.

'Allow me,' he said, before bending down in front of House, the waist of his pants riding down to reveal the top of a very pink, and very tight, thong.

Wilson's face was poker straight as he handed the cloth back and he took immense satisfaction in seeing House bite the inside of his cheek.

Not that the boxer heist was an urgent emergency, thought Wilson as he left the condo. Always the Boy Scout, he kept a full change of clothes in the boot of his car. He rummaged around the small case, one hand finding a green thong and the other a crumpled piece of paper.

_Sorry, what I should have said was, we actually have nineteen new dish cloths._

Wilson squirmed and wondered if any of the nineteen thongs didn't chafe.

On Thursday Wilson called into House in his office. 'What's for dinner?' he asked.

House gestured at his assembled team. 'I'm in a meeting,' he answered with mock indignation.

'Yeah. Hi,' Wilson waved at the team, who settled back to watch the latest episode of the House and Wilson Show.

'What's for dinner?' Wilson repeated.

House sighed. 'I'm tired. Don't feel like cooking tonight. How 'bout pizza?'

Wilson shrugged. 'Okay.'

'Seriously?'

'Yeah. Don't forget the grocery shopping. Here, I've made you a list.'

Wilson passed it to Taub, who passed it to Thirteen, who passed it to Chase, who passed it to Foreman, who passed it to House, who glared at Wilson.

'You do know that there are on-line services, where you can place your order, which will then be delivered to your place of residence?' House didn't even look at the piece of paper.

'Yes, I'm all too aware of you fondness for things ordered online and then delivered to your door. But as I'm sure you're aware, the picture is often prettier than the reality. I don't want soft vegetables and melted ice-cream. I always think it's best to feel your produce before committing to a purchase.'

'You want me to feel up some vegetables?'

'You've felt up worse.'

'Only when drunk,' and there was an element of truth in House's tone.

'So, stay sober 'til you get to the checkouts.'

'Too late.'

Wilson put his hands on his hips, indicating that he was growing increasingly impatient with House or this conversation. Or both.

'I hate grocery shopping,' House whined.

Wilson made an 'I don't give a shit' face.

'My leg hurts.' House snapped.

Wilson's face didn't change. 'Oh, did I write down bananas?'

House turned his glare from Wilson to the list. 'No.'

'Well get some…lots actually.' As he turned to the door, he called over his shoulder.

'And House – stay away from my underwear.'

'Never!' boomed a voice from behind him.

Wilson had a board meeting and when he returned to the condo, the first thing he noticed was a large bunch of bananas on the coffee table, alongside three covered platters.

'Hey', called House, as he walked from the kitchen to the sofa. 'Hungry?' he pointed at the platters.

'Starving', answered Wilson, somewhat suspicious at the lack of cooking smells.

'Help yourself', and House settled back on the cushions and flicked on the television.

Wilson unwrapped the first plate. Sliced bananas. A whole plateful.

He sighed and reached for the second platter, which when unwrapped revealed even more bananas. Mashed this time.

'I'm spotting a theme here', Wilson drolled as he reached for the final plate, 'Ah yes, grated banana. With parsley.'

House didn't take his eyes from the television as he responded, 'The parsley, brings out the taste of the banana. Never let it be said that I'm unimaginative.'

Wilson slammed the plate down, heaved himself off the sofa and into the kitchen. He opened the food cupboards in search of …something. Something that wasn't bananas.

All he found was more bananas.

On the top shelf.

On the bottom shelf.

On the middle shelf.

Nothing but bananas.

Wilson swore quietly and, with no small amount of trepidation, went to the fridge.

Bananas of the top shelf.

Bananas on the second shelf.

Bananas on the third shelf.

Beer on the fourth shelf.

'Thank fuck', he muttered and grabbed one.

'You know House,' Wilson walked back through the living room, 'I gave you a list.'

'Yeah, I know. Left it at the hospital. Remembered your bananas though.'

'And your beer,' Wilson countered.

'The alliteration helped.'

'Really, so you know what else begins with B? Butter. Bread. Broccoli. Beans.'

'Were they on the list?'

'Yes,' Wilson answered through gritted teeth.

'Huh. Too bad I left it at work then.'

Wilson sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. 'I'm going to have a bath. Order a pizza.'

When he returned, House had already eaten his half of the pizza and had gone to bed. Wilson opened the box and shook off the sliced banana that covered his slices, before settling back with the remote control.

The following morning, when Wilson tried to open his underwear drawer, he discovered he couldn't. Using both hands, he shifted and manoeuvred it until it finally gave; unveiling the cupboard's entire missing dried and canned goods.

Not a banana in sight.

Nor any underwear.

Not even a thong.

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

Commando Wilson it was then.

That same day was also the last day of Housemaid House, and as Wilson sat in front of the TV waiting for his friend to come home, he realised that he really was going to miss all of this.

He greeted House with the traditional 'hey' via the television when he came home. House shuffled to the sofa and sat down without answering, although Wilson could feel his eyes boring holes into his skull. He turned to House and his heart dropped to his stomach. He hadn't seen House look at him like that since the day he had burst into Wilson's office and dropped a box containing a guitar piece on to his table.

House knew.

Fuck.


	4. Chapter 4

'Hey,' House eventually replied, his eyes and tone cold.

Wilson looked at him quizzically. House raised his eyebrows in return and Wilson knew that this was his cue to ask what was wrong. He didn't doubt that House had a prepared response, but Wilson wasn't playing. At least, he wasn't playing House's game.

'Where's the food?' Wilson asked.

'The food?' House gaped at him.

'Yeah, you said you'd pick up some take out, you know, the last of your "I'm a big loser and my friend is a big winner" duties. So, where is it?'

House glared at him a moment before slyly smirking. 'The food…oh, I'm sure I got it. Must be here somewhere,' and he began patting his back pockets, pulling out his wallet from one and his hospital ID from another, and throwing both on the table.

'No, not there. Hold on, it must be here somewhere.' He patted his jacket before unzipping it and tugging at something hidden inside. 'Wait…got it.' A blue hospital file was eventually released and Wilson's eyes widened slightly. House looked at it in mock surprise. 'No, that's not it.' He slammed the file on the table and looked back at Wilson. 'Guess I forgot. Other things on my mind.'

And still Wilson would not play. He looked back at the television, ignoring House's drumming on his thighs, an unconscious tell of his increasing annoyance. When House began to click his tongue, Wilson tried not to smirk.

'What are you watching?' House snapped after a few minutes.

'Friends.'

'Ah, that Ross. Never liked him. He's a lying, cheating bastard.'

Wilson took a long blink. 'You want me to change the channel?' he asked.

'No, there'll just be more shows with lying, cheating bastards.'

He waited about twenty seconds before adding, 'Hey Wilson, do you know any lying, cheating bastards?'

Wilson sighed. The show was well on the road. Time to move it along.

'Something on your mind House?' he asked.

'Yeah. Funny you should ask. Herpes. And its diagnosis there of. Take, for example, this generic family doctor file,' and House reached for it and began to thumb through it.

'Belongs to a David Stenson. A patient of mine from sometime last week. A patient that you cured. Three weeks ago he went back to his own doctor with an outbreak of Herpes Simplex. It's all here', and House shook the file in Wilson's face before continuing, 'Mouth, nostrils, scar tissue – all infected. Oh, if only I had had this information last week. Who knows, I might even have diagnosed the encephalitis. But, alas, this file only came into my possession today, even though it was sent to the hospital a week ago. Can you believe that? It took a whole week for it to arrive at my office. Heads are going to roll!' And House shook his own head, as if to demonstrate. 'Lucky you were on hand though, I mean you managed to figure out what was wrong without ever seeing this medical history. Dr James Wilson, All Round Wonder Boy. Or Lying, Cheating Bastard. One of them.'

House sat back, clearly pleased with his improvised speech and smirking smugly when Wilson _finally_ gave a look of concession.

'Didn't Ma Wilson ever teach you that cheaters never win?' House patronised.

Wilson smiled grimly, 'I guess she didn't.'

'You cheated.'

'I improvised.'

'You cheated.'

Wilson realised it was pointless. 'I cheated.'

'You lost'

Wilson shrugged.

'Say it,' demanded House.

'I lost.'

'Yes, you did, thereby making me the winner by default. You. Lying. Cheating. Bastard.'

'Oh, for Chrissake, House, what's with the wounded martyr act? From possibly the world's greatest opportunist? You would have done the same thing to me in a heartbeat…'

'You fucking cheated. And you had me run around after you all week, while you sat on your fat ass…I don't believe you…you…dick. Who the hell do you think you are? For the past week I've been wondering how the hell I missed this…'

'So that's what this is about - your ego,' and now Wilson started to sound exasperated. 'You just couldn't cope with the idea that I might have solved the puzzle before the great Gregory House. I can only imagine how this tormented you over the past week. Well, you know what? Who the hell do _you_ think you are? You really should. _Get. Over. Yourself.' _

House could only stare at Wilson as though he had never seen him before in his life.

Wilson took a steadying breath and held out his hands in momentary surrender.

'You know what? You're right. I cheated. So…I'm sorry.' Wilson shifted and pulled his wallet from his back pocket, fumbling around in it. 'Here… here's your money.' He held out two bills towards House. 'Go on, take it. It's yours.' He nodded at his hand.

House contemplated the money before looking back at Wilson, and shifting up the sofa.

'I don't think so,' he mused, his eyes gleaming, 'I don't think I want the money anymore.'

House kept on shuffling closer to Wilson, until Wilson was against the very edge of the sofa. With nowhere else to go. He held the notes up, 'Look, just take the money…it's yours.'

'Nah, from what I remember, that wasn't the terms of our deal.'

'Two hundred bucks House. That's what we agreed. I'm not giving you any more…'

'That was the revised deal. The original stake was, I believe, a kiss. Pucker up, Wilson'

Wilson's defensively outstretched arm was now touching House's chest, cutting off both his words and space. He furrowed his brow.

'Oh, you cannot be serious…you cannot be serious!'

'Jeez, John McEnroe, shut your mouth. Or in this case, open it.'

And with that, House's lips were on him.

It should have been a chaste kiss, a harmless kiss, a closed mouthed kiss. It was designed to punish Wilson's outrageous cheating and to teach him that messing with a man sans boundaries had consequences. It was not supposed to last more than five seconds. It was not supposed to jolt either the giver or the receiver. It was not supposed to feel so good when Wilson's mouth opened (maybe in surprise?) and House's mouth responded in kind (maybe to ask Wilson what he was doing?).

You see, that's the problem with playing with fire, and Wilson's tongue was searingly hot when it probed House's frozen one. And he did it again. And again. And again. Until House's tongue relaxed and began to push back.

And they were kissing for real.

Not for a bet, not for revenge, but for real.

House's left hand hovered above Wilson's head before reaching down to tug it through thick hair. Wilson's hands busied themselves by running up and down House's torso and just as things were escalating from the somewhat weird to the downright inappropriate, House broke from him. Both men eyed each other warily, breathing heavily and more than a little stunned by what had just happened between them.

Wilson, who had plenty of clandestine encounters under his belt, recognised this moment for what it was.

_ We can stop now and deal with everything that that entails._

_Or fuck it, we can go on and eventually deal with all that that entails. _

And if the 'go on' wasn't tempting enough, the 'eventually' sold it.

Decision made, Wilson latched his mouth back on to House's and upheld his promise of eight days ago. There was wet tongue, nibbling, biting, licking, sucking and groping – all the hallmarks of a heady make-out session. Although, in all the years Wilson had been making-out, the only hard-on he had experienced was his own. The addition of another erection into the gravy was a novel one, and was, Wilson realised, what was missing all this time. And so heralded the re-education James Wilson, who thought he knew everything there was to be known about his best friend. For example, he knew that House's chest was essentially smooth, but he had no idea it would feel so good under his fingers. He knew that House had an oral fixation but he had no idea of its benefits until House sucked on that spot of Wilson's neck. He knew that House could snap, shout, growl and speak tenderly, but he had no idea that he could make _that _keening sound when Wilson licked at his nipple. He knew that House's fingers were nimble, but dear God, the speed at which he unzipped Wilson was...and House's sudden laughter indicated that he too was learning, having just discovered Wilson's commando status. Wilson almost joined in the laughter but at that very moment House uncovered the hard flesh and pulled on it firmly. The resulting groan from Wilson and the roll of his eyes out an end to House's mirth.  
'Not here, bedroom,' he muttered hoarsely.

Wilson abandoned what was left of his 'hard to get' so quickly that he had to take two steps back to help House up. He found House's mouth again, and, together, two men with three limps made it to the bedroom. Wilson fell back on the bed first and House began making his way up Wilson's torso, kissing and biting at every bit of skin he unveiled. All Wilson could do was lie back and give in to twenty years of want.

And when House stilled again, Wilson just couldn't fucking believe this. He opened his eyes to glare at House but was stopped short by the other man's uncertain expression.

'Are you...are you stopping?' House's tone was eerily calm, as though he expected this to happen.

'What? What? No. God. No. Not stopping. No. Just…just enjoying', and Wilson moved quickly, pushing House back onto the bed and working frantically to rid them both of clothing. He stood at the end of the bed, pulling off socks and shoes and throwing them over his shoulders.

'You're like that Swedish Chef from the Muppet Show', House observed with a small smile.

Wilson smiled back at him. 'Bork, Bork, Bork,' he called out while throwing his shirt and House's jeans behind him. And House's smile grew into one that had teeth. Maybe this is why Wilson crawled up him and pulled him up to kiss his cheekbone and his eyebrow and his forehead, before whispering into the shell of his ear, 'Not stopping. No fucking way.'

House groaned and raised a hand to Wilson's face to pull him back for a kiss, a kiss that had Wilson thinking stupid things like 'epic' and 'forever'. These were also the last rational thoughts he had before falling down on the bed and the hot body waiting beneath him. The instantaneous rutting was clumsy, enthusiastic, and almost enough. But not quite. House sighed at the frustrating need for friction and grumbled into Wilson's mouth, 'This is one of the few sexual activities that works better with clothes on'.

'Okay. Wait,' Wilson panted, drawing himself up on his knees and too far away from a whimpering House. 'Just wait,' and he swallowed before taking a breath. He lowered himself back down, aligning his own cock with House's before closing his fingers around them and fisting loosely. He settled into the crook of moaning House's neck, sucking on the salty skin and beginning to move his hand faster and faster until movement was no longer a conscious action. House came first, calling out Wilson's name and Wilson now understood why he always thought that God sounded just like House. He was seconds behind, biting down on House's carotid.

It was that quick.

If either of them had been with women, they'd have been embarrassed.


	5. Chapter 5

You lost,' House was the first to speak.

Maybe the sight of Wilson as a poster boy for debauchery might have taken some of the bite from his triumph.

'Yeah', Wilson said, trying unsuccessfully to open his still rolling eyes. 'I lost big time.'

House frowned, pulled from his afterglow somewhat quicker than he would have liked, and all because something was missing. Something was not quite right. Pacing had always helped House progress from the abstract to the concrete, but at this very moment his right leg was bound to strongly object to any movement at all, and his left leg would object to any separation from a third leg next to it.

'How did you get Stenson's medical file?' he asked.

'I was alone in your office when the front desk called to say it had been faxed through,' Wilson mumbled into a pillow.

'And they just gave it to you?'

'No, all above board, I had to sign for it. You know that male nurse that hates you? He agreed not to tell you but he made me sign the receipt. He didn't want to risk his job. Said I wasn't that good looking.'

House's failure to hide his smile might have contradicted that last statement. As for the murse, well, House would either punch him or buy him a coffee. Kind of depended on how the rest of tonight went.

He turned to Wilson again and rolled his eyes at his at the ridiculous smirk on his face.

'I don't know what you're looking so pleased with yourself about. We wouldn't be here if someone hadn't left that file on my desk.'

The bed shook with Wilson's laughter.

'Yeah,' he drawled '_someone_.' And he finally managed to open both eyes at the same time.

House had almost given up being shocked by now. Almost.

'_You_…_you_ put it there…why would you..?' And he felt a little sick. 'Didn't we do the Icarus thing already? All of this' he gestured between them, 'began with a lesson to teach me a little humility?'

'What did I tell you about getting over yourself?' and there was no playfulness in either Wilson's tone or expression.

House stared at him. 'So, why then? What was the point? You could have gotten away with it.'

Wilson, pulled himself up onto his elbows and put on a 'business' like expression – which considering he was naked, should have looked far more ridiculous than it did.

'Okay, you know what would be fun? A differential. Start.'

Of course, Wilson was a ludicrously cheerful bastard after sex. House was too impatient for this shit.

'Are you trying to piss me off?' he asked in a tone that suggested that Wilson had succeeded.

Wilson continued to smirk. 'You're getting close', he answered slyly.

He now had House's full attention. 'You wanted me to get mad? Why? Why would you want...' and he trailed off as the pieces began to fit together. 'You wanted me to get mad, because you wanted…you wanted me…' House was now talking to himself, Wilson all but forgotten as the picture became clearer. 'That's why you waited until now to give me the file. You knew that had I found earlier, I would have taken the money. You knew that if I was mad, I would have wanted to get back at you, and so I would have kissed you…you…Oh my God, that's why you didn't react when you first saw the file…you were still trying to annoy me…you…you…_you wanted me to kiss you.' _

House stared at Wilson in awe, as impressed with him as Wilson was with himself.

A pillow rustled as Wilson nodded. 'In my defence, I also wanted a clean apartment and to keep my money. It's like a win-win-win situation.'

'You planned this…all of this?'

'No, just up to the kissing part. The rest, well it kind of took on a life of its own,' and Wilson shrugged as well as a man still lying on his stomach could.

House lay perfectly still as he processed all of this new information, before discarding what was superfluous and condensing it in to one sentence. One incredible possibility.

'You wanted me to kiss you.' House was hovering on the crest of an enormous wave of relief.

Wilson must have heard the question in that statement. 'Yes.'

House was sure that the breath he released must have been heard next door.

'My friend is an asshole,' he told the ceiling.

'I can empathise,' answered Wilson.

House ignored him. 'My friend is a sneaky bastard,' he continued.

'I'll say. He sounds utterly diabolical. I bet he's a great lay as well.'

'Substitute _great _for _easy_. And I never want to hear the words 'I bet' from his mouth again.'

Wilson smiled tiredly before yawning. 'I bet he's also doesn't like referring to himself in the third person. And he wants to go to sleep. Anything else can wait 'til tomorrow.'

That last word froze the air around them. Tomorrow. The dawn of realities, the bringer of regrets, the birth of truths, the emergence of doubts, the unfolding of…House was snapped out of his reverie by a peculiar sound coming from the other side of the bed.

'Luh-uh-huh-oooozer.'

House snapped his head around to stare at Wilson and Jesus-on-a-bike that dickhead actually had his thumb and forefinger stretched out on his forehead in an 'L' shape.

'Get out of my bed.'

'Gladly. If this was actually _your _bed.'

And House did not like this effect that Wilson was having on him. Turning him into an idiot, and what not.

He slapped at the hand that Wilson had lowered onto his tummy.

'Get off, I don't cuddle'

Wilson sighed a 'Thank God,' before shifting away from House. He rolled onto his side, facing his bedmate, but not touching and within seconds was asleep.

House scowled at the peaceful looking face. Who the hell falls asleep in less than ten seconds? He chewed the inside of his cheek and for the hundredth time today, wondered 'what next?'. It was true, what he had told Wilson. He wasn't a cuddler but he was human, and just like every human, amazing sex flooded his body with oxytocin, awakening a biological imperative to touch and be touched. When he had been with Stacy, he would often spend his post-coital period drumming his fingers up and down her back while she fell asleep. Or examining the bones of her wrist. Even more casual or expensive encounters always ended with him riding out endorphins with a casual hand placed gently on someone else's skin. It was how he asked for, and returned, intimacy.

But Wilson was all the way over the other side of the bed, looking contented and breathing evenly. Too far away to touch and too far away...House refused to add 'period' to that thought. He also decided that Wilson had had enough of getting his own way recently.

All the same, when he scooted closer, he tried to do so with as much grace as one with a crap leg could do, so as not to alert the sleeping man. Wilson didn't move. Another couple of inches were gained when House repeated the move, and still Wilson remained asleep. One final shuffle and House was there, Wilson's mouth resting against House's shoulder and House's lips gently pressed to Wilson's forehead. He closed his eyes and then immediately snapped them open again when an arm slipped around his waist and a smirk was pressed into his shoulder. House froze, while Wilson shook with silent laughter.

The sneaky bastard.

House turned his face away from Wilson's forehead so that Wilson would not feel his answering smile. But when his mouth was a safe distance from Wilson's skin, House just completely gave up. And grinned like an idiot.

The. Sneaky. Bastard.


End file.
